Stuff You Should Know - Josh N Chuck's Hallowe'en Spooky Scarefest

Episode Date: October 29, 2015

Each year, Chuck and Josh read a couple of scary stories and this year they have a pair of truly frightful tales about a haunted bog and a terrifying spider exhibit. Learn more about your ad-choices at https://www.iheartpodcastnetwork.comSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

On the podcast, Hey Dude, the 90s called, David Lasher and Christine Taylor, stars of the cult classic show, Hey Dude, bring you back to the days of slip dresses and choker necklaces. We're gonna use Hey Dude as our jumping off point, but we are going to unpack and dive back into the decade of the 90s.

We lived it, and now we're calling on all of our friends to come back and relive it. Listen to Hey Dude, the 90s called on the iHeart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, I'm Lance Bass, host of the new iHeart podcast, Frosted Tips with Lance Bass. Do you ever think to yourself, what advice would Lance Bass

and my favorite boy bands give me in this situation? If you do, you've come to the right place because I'm here to help. And a different hot, sexy teen crush boy bander each week to guide you through life. Tell everybody, ya everybody, about my new podcast and make sure to listen so we'll never, ever have to say. Bye, bye, bye.

Listen to Frosted Tips with Lance Bass on the iHeart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. Welcome to Stuff You Should Know, from HowStuffWorks.com. Hey, and welcome to the Halloween podcast. I'm Josh the Ghoul Clark. That's right.

There's Chuck the Phantom. Brian. And Jerry. The Ghoul-ish Phantom. Wraith. I think, Jerry didn't like being called a Wraith. No? No.

I think she doesn't know what it means. No, I know. I think this tradition is so great and fun now. I think so too. That we are beginning to live alongside the Simpsons Treehouse of Horror. It's that venerated, huh? I think so.

I think you're not. I think listeners really look forward to this. Well, not on that level of like fame, but I think fans of the Simpsons look forward to that each year, just as our fans look forward to the Halloween episode each year. That's what I'm saying.

I got you. It's one of my favorites. Obviously, both of us, Christmas and Halloween, are probably two faves of the year. Right. Am I speaking for you? Yeah, but you're speaking correctly. All right, I can live with that.

You know, I mean like those are the two that we know we're gonna be good. All the rest of them, it's like hit or miss. Yeah, for the unknown, unadorned, unadorned, uninitiated. Un indoctrinated. Un indoctrinated. Unexposed. Unexposed.

What we do each year is we read a scary story for Halloween and last with, and Jerry, guess he's it all up with special effects like this. It's amazing. That was amazing. How about that? Wow, that's creepy. Like I'm scared right now.

And last year, we started a tradition where we are reading two shorter stories and that's what we're doing again this year. Yeah, because I think what happened is... Well, remember we had a Halloween horror fiction contest. Well, yeah. That was great stuff. It was pretty cool.

Yeah. And then, but we started the whole thing out with, was it the tomb? I think it was the first one. Mm-hmm. And then we did bear niece. Yeah. Then the horror fiction contest.

I think. And then... I don't know how many this is. Oh, yeah, well, that's a figure it out. Yeah, because we'll have to title it whatever annual Halloween spooktacular. Yes. Which is a different thing that we did once

on our very short-lived web video series. What was it called? Webcast. Webcast. That's right. It's so ancient already that we can remember. Our live webcast. So you picked out this first one

and I picked out the second one. Well, first, first, hold on. I want to give a plug to our buddy, the Grabster. Okay. Because he hooked us up. All right. So I don't know if you know this or not, but the Grabster knows what he's talking about

when it comes to horror movies. Yeah. And we tweeted to him and said, hey man, can you give us a list of your favorite horror movies of all time? Yeah. And the Grabster said... Oh, are you going to read them?

No, no. But he said, yes. Let me give me a night. Yeah. And I will put it together. And by goodness, if he didn't put it on his personal site, robotviking.com, the post is some of my favorite horror movies.

And he just went to town. What's his number one? It's not listed. Suspiria, no? Like he doesn't have them in order. Oh, okay. But Rawhead Rex is on there. Ponte Pool.

Oh, yeah. Triangle, Return of the Living Dead 3. And he justifies these. You know? You know what he's talking about. I need to see Ponte Pool, because our buddy Joe Garden is long raved about the merits of Ponte Pool.

Yeah, I've never seen it either. Yeah, you need to check it out. It's one of those ones that's like, I think it's up on Netflix too. All right. So you picked this first one. You want to just set it up? Yes.

So this is The Moon Bog. It's hyphenated two words by our friend, Howard Phillips Lovecraft, who is still one of my favorite writers of all time. Yeah. Yeah, even though you can just go on and on about him personally or his writing style or some of the devices he used,

like other than describing something, just saying it was indescribable or unnameable, I still love the guy for some reason. And this one is one of his more interesting imaginative ones. Sure. Has nothing to do with the Cthulhu mythos or anything like that.

It's just pretty cool. It's a neat little weirdo, ancient haunting story. Yeah. It's about an Irish American who doesn't follow the advice of the local townspeople. Let's just say that. No. All right.

You ready? You want me to start? Yeah. Without further ado, The Moon Bog by H.B. Lovecraft. Yeah. Somewhere to what remote and fearsome region I know not, Dennis Berry has gone. I was with him the last night he lived among men

and heard his screams when the thing came to him. But all the peasants and police and county meath could never find him or the others, though they searched long and far. And now I shudder when I hear the frogs piping in swamps or see the moon in lonely places. I had known Dennis Berry well in America, where he had grown rich and had congratulated him

when he bought back the old castle by the bog at Sleepy Kildari. It was from Kildari that his father had come. And it was there that he wished to enjoy his wealth among ancestral scenes. Men of his blood had once ruled over Kildari and built and dwelt in the castle. But those days were very remote so that for generations,

the castle had been empty and decaying. After he went to Ireland, Berry wrote me often and told me how under his care the great castle was rising tower by tower to its ancient splendor, how the ivy was climbing slowly over the restored walls as it had climbed so many centuries ago, and how the peasants blessed him for bringing back the old days with his gold from over the sea.

But in time there came troubles and the peasants ceased to bless him and fled away instead as from a doom. And then he sent a letter and asked me to visit him, for he was lonely in the castle with no one to speak to save the new servants and laborers he had brought from the north. The bog was the cause of all these troubles as Berry told me the night I came to the castle. I had reached Kildari in the summer sunset

as the gold of the sky lighted the green of the hills and groves in the blue of the bog. We're on a far islet, a strange old ruin glistened spectrally. That sunset was very beautiful, but the peasants at Ballylow had warned me against it and said that Kildari had become accursed, so that I almost shuddered to see the high turrets of the castle gilded with fire.

Berry's motor had met me at the Ballylow station for Kildari is off the railway. The villagers had shunned the car and the driver from the north, but had whispered to me with pale faces when they saw I was going to Kildari. And that night after our reunion Berry told me why. The peasants had gone from Kildari

because Dennis Berry was to drain the great bog. For all his love of Ireland, America had not left him untouched and he hated the beautiful wasted space where peat might be cut and the land opened up. The legends and superstitions of Kildari did not move him and he laughed when the peasants first refused to help and then cursed him and went away to Ballylow

with their few belongings as they saw his determination. In their place, he sent for laborers from the north and when the servants left, he replaced them likewise. But it was lonely among strangers, so Berry had asked me to come. All right, so we got this guy, Dennis, who got his old fixer-upper family castle. You made some mula back in the States?

Went over to Ireland to fix it up, brought in some, I guess, people from Scotland to help. Friends from the north, maybe? Yeah, sure. I took it to be Green Line for some reason. Interesting. And everyone in the village, he wants to get rid of that bog and drain it

and then I put in a tennis court. He's like, we could build train tracks there or something. And everyone in the village is going, oh, big mistake, I'm out of here. So his buddy comes to visit him and that's where we are. When I heard the fears which had driven the people from Kildari, I laughed as loudly as my friend had laughed. These fears were the vagus, wildest

and most absurd character. They had to do with some preposterous legend of the bog and of a grim guardian spirit that dwelt in the strange olden ruin on the far islet I'd seen in the sunset. There were tales of dancing lights in the dark of the moon and of chill winds when the night was warm, of rates in white hovering over the waters,

but foremost among the weird fancies and alone in its absolute unanimity was that of the curse awaiting him who should dare to touch or drain the vast reddish morass. Don't drain the bog. There were secrets at the peasants which must not be uncovered,

secrets that had lain hidden since the plague came to the children of Parthalan in the fabulous years beyond history. In the book of invaders, it is told that the sons of the Greeks were all buried at Talach. But old men in Kildari said, one city was overlooked saved by its patron moon goddess, so that only the wooded hills buried it

when the men of Nimed swept down from Sethia in their 30 ships. Such were the idle tales which had made the villagers leave Kildari, and when I heard them, I did not wonder what Dennis Barry had refused to listen. He had, however, great interest in antiquities and proposed to explore the bog thoroughly when it was drained.

The white ruins on the islet he had often visited, but though their age was plainly great and their contour very little, like that of most ruins in Ireland, there were too dilapidated to tell the days of their glory. Now the work of drainage was ready to begin, and the laborers from the north were soon to strip the forbidden bog

of its green moss and red heather and kill the tiny shelf-paved streamlets and quiet blue pools friends with brushes. After Barry had told me these things, I was very drowsy for the travels of the day had been wearying, and my host had talked late into the night. A manservant shoved me into my room, which was in a remote tower overlooking the village

and the plain at the edge of the bog and the bog itself so that I could see from my windows in the moonlight the silent roofs from which the peasants had fled which now sheltered the laborers from the north and, too, the parish church with its antique spire and far out across the brooding bog, the remote olden ruin on the islet gleaming white in spectral. Just as I dropped asleep,

I fancied I heard faint sounds from the distance, sounds that were wild and half-musical and stirred me with a weird excitement which colored my dreams. But when I awaked next morning, I felt that it had all been a dream, for the visions I had seen were more wonderful than any sound of wild pipes in the night.

Influenced by the legends that Barry had related, my mind had in slumber, hovered around a stately city in a green valley, where marble streets and statues, villas and temples, carvings and inscriptions all spoke in certain tones, the glory that was Greece. When I told this dream to Barry, we both laughed, but I laughed the louder

because he was perplexed about his laborers from the north. For the sixth time, they had all overslept, waking very slowly and day-sadly and acting as if they had not rested, although they were known to have gone early to bed the night before. So. The Scottish laborers are getting drunk.

They're oversleeping. They're oversleeping. They're slacking off. And this guy's having visions, huh? Yeah, and the whole thing is there's this legend that under the bog, there's a stone city that was covered over with this bog. Ancient Greece.

And that, yeah, that was an ancient Greek city in Ireland. And that if you dig up the bog, it's gonna be big trouble because the city is supernatural, say the least. Oh man, this is getting good. You ready again? Yes. Are you ready, listener?

Yes. Okay. That morning and afternoon, I wandered alone through the sun-guilded village and talked now and then with idle laborers, for Barry was busy with the final plans for beginning his work of drainage. The laborers were not as happy as they might have been,

for most of them seemed uneasy over some dream which they had had, yet which they tried in vain to remember. I told them of my dream, but they were not interested till I spoke of the weird sounds I thought I had heard. Then they looked oddly at me and said that they seem to remember weird sounds too. In the evening, Barry dined with me

and announced that he would begin the drainage in two days. I was glad, for although I disliked to see the moss and the heather and the little streams and lakes depart, I had a growing wish to discern the ancient secrets the deep-matted peat might hide. And that night, my dreams of piping flutes and marble peristiles came to a sudden and disquieting end. For upon the city in the valley, I saw pestilence descend.

And then a frightful avalanche of wooded slopes that covered the dead bodies in the streets and left unburied only the temple of Artemis on the high peak, where the aged moon priestess, Cleus, lay cold and silent with the crown of ivory on her silver head. Yeesh. I have said that I awake suddenly in an alarm.

For some time, I could not tell whether I was waking or sleeping, for the sounds of flutes still rang shrilly in my ears. But when I saw on the floor the icy moon beams in the outlines of a lattice gothic window, I decided I must be awake and in the castle at Kildary. Then I heard a clock from some remote landing below, strike the hour of two, and I knew I was awake.

Yet still, there came that monotonous piping from afar, wild, weird airs that made me think of some dance of fawns on distant manless. It would not let me sleep, and in patience, I sprang up and paced the floor. Only by chance did I go to the north window and look out upon the silent village in the plain at the edge of the bog.

I had no wish to gaze abroad, for I wanted to sleep, but the flutes tormented me, and I had to see or do something. How could I have suspected the thing I was to behold? There in the moonlight that flooded the spacious plain was a spectacle which no mortal having seen it could ever forget. To the sound of reedy pipes that echoed over the bog, they're glided silently and eerily,

a mixed throng of swaying figures reeling through such a revel as the Sicilians may have danced to demeanor in the old days under the harvest mood beside the cyan. The wide plain, the golden moonlight, the shadowy moving forms, and above all the shrill monotonous piping produced an effect which almost paralyzed me. Yet I noted amidst my fear that half of these tireless

mechanical dancers were the laborers whom I had thought asleep, whilst the other half were strange, airy beings in white, half indeterminate in nature, but suggesting pale, wistful niads from the haunted fountains of the bog. I do not know how long I gazed at the sight from the lonely turret window before I dropped suddenly in a dreamless swoon out of which

the high sun of mourning aroused me. On the podcast, Hey Dude, the 90s called, David Lasher and Christine Taylor, stars of the cult classic show, Hey Dude, bring you back to the days of slip dresses and choker necklaces. We're going to use Hey Dude as our jumping off point, but we are going to unpack and dive back

into the decade of the 90s. We lived it, and now we're calling on all of our friends to come back and relive it. It's a podcast packed with interviews, co-stars, friends, and non-stop references to the best decade ever. Do you remember going to Blockbuster? Do you remember Nintendo 64?

Do you remember getting Frosted Tips? Was that a cereal? No, it was hair. Do you remember AOL Instant Messenger and the dial-up sound like poltergeist? So leave a code on your best friend's beeper, because you'll want to be there when the nostalgia starts flowing.

Each episode will rival the feeling of taking out the cartridge from your Game Boy, blowing on it and popping it back in, as we take you back to the 90s. Listen to Hey Dude, the 90s called on the iHeart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, I'm Lance Bass, host of the new iHeart podcast, Frosted Tips with Lance Bass.

The hardest thing can be knowing who to turn to when questions arise or times get tough, or you're at the end of the road. Ah, OK, I see what you're doing. Do you ever think to yourself, what advice would Lance Bass and my favorite boy bands give me in this situation? If you do, you've come to the right place, because I'm here to help.

This, I promise you. Oh, god. Seriously, I swear. And you won't have to send an SOS, because I'll be there for you. Oh, man. And so will my husband, Michael. Um, hey, that's me.

Yep, we know that, Michael. And a different hot, sexy teen crush boy bander each week to guide you through life, step by step. Oh, not another one. Kids, relationships, life in general, can get messy. You may be thinking, this is the story of my life. Just stop now. If so, tell everybody, yeah, everybody,

about my new podcast, and make sure to listen, so we'll never, ever have to say bye, bye, bye. Listen to Frosted Tips with Lance Bass on the iHeart radio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you listen to podcasts. Things are getting real. Creeps, Phil. Yeah, so he's like seeing these weird ghostly zombie like laborers and white creatures.

He needs to lay off the opium. Do they have opium in Ireland? Sure, you kidding me? He needs to lay off. All right, here we go. My first impulse on awakening was to communicate all my fears and observations to Dennis Barry. But as I saw the sunlight glowing

through the lattice east window, I became sure that there was no reality in what I thought I had seen. I am given to strange fantasms, yet am never weak enough to believe in them. So on this occasion, contented myself with questioning the laborers, who slept very late, and recalled nothing of the previous night

save misty dreams of shrill sounds. This matter of the spectral piping harassed me greatly, and I wondered if the crickets of autumn had come before their time to vex the night and haunt the visions of men. Later in the day, I watched Barry in the window pouring over his plans for the great work, which was to begin on the morrow.

And for the first time, felt the touch of the same kind of fear that had driven the peasants away. For some unknown reason, I dreaded the thought of disturbing the ancient bog and its sunless secrets and pictured terrible sights lying black under the unmeasured depth of age-old Pete, that these secrets should be brought to light seems injudicious.

And I began to wish for an excuse to leave the castle in the village. I went so far as to talk casually to Barry on the subject, but did not dare continue after he gave his resounding laugh. So I was silent when the sun set fulgently over the far hills and kildery blazed all red and gold in a flame that seemed apportent. So he brought it up to his buddy, and he kind of got me

fun of, I think, right? Whether the events of that night were of reality or illusion, I shall never ascertain. Certainly, they transcend anything we dream of in nature and the universe. Yet in no formal fashion can I explain those disappearances, which were known to all men after it was over. I retired eerie and full of dread,

and for a long time could not sleep in the uncanny silence of the tower. It was very dark. For although the sky was clear, the moon was now well in the wane, would not rise till the small hours. I thought as I lay there of Dennis Barry and of what would befall that bog when the day came and found myself almost frantic with an impulse

to rush out into the night, take Barry's car, and drive madly to Ballelach out of the menaced lands. But before my fears could crystallize into action, I'd fall asleep and gazed in dreams upon the city and the valley, cold and dead, under a shroud of hideous shadow. Probably it was the shrill piping that awaked me. Yet that piping was not what I noticed first when I opened my eyes.

I was lying with my back to the east window, overlooking the bog, where the waning moon would rise, and therefore expected to see light cast on the opposite wall before me. But I had not looked for such a sight as now appeared. Light indeed glowed on the panels ahead, but it was not any light that the moon gives. Terrible and piercing was the shaft of ruddy refulgence

that streamed through the Gothic window, and the whole chamber was brilliant with a splendor intense and unearthly. My immediate actions were peculiar for such a situation, but it is only in tales that a man does the dramatic and foreseen thing. Instead of looking out across the bog toward the source of the new light,

I kept my eyes from the window in panic fear and clumsily drew on my clothing with some dazed idea of escape. I remember seizing my revolver and hat, but before it was over, I had lost them both without firing the one or donning the other. After a time, the fascination of the red radiance overcame my fright, and I crept to the east window

and looked out whilst the maddening andcessant piping whined and reverberated through the castle and over all of the village. Over the bog was a deluge of flaring light, scarlet and sinister, and pouring from the strange olden ruin on the far islet. The aspect of that ruin I cannot describe. I must have been mad for it seemed to rise majestic

and undecayed, splendid and column-sintered, the flame-reflecting marble of its intabulature piercing the sky like the apex of a temple on a mountain top. Flute shrieked and drums began to beat, and as I watched in awe and terror, I thought I saw dark, salt and form silhouetted grotesquely against the vision of marble and effulgence.

The effect was titanic, altogether unthinkable, and I might have stared indefinitely had not the sound of the piping seem to grow stronger at my left. Trembling with a terror oddly mixed with ecstasy, I crossed the circular room to the north window from which I could see the village and the plain at the edge of the bog.

There my eyes dilated again with a wild wonder as great as if I had not just turned from a scene beyond the pale of nature. For on the ghastly red-lit and plain was moving a procession of beings in such manner as none ever saw before save in nightmares. That is not a parade of fun happening outside his window, is it?

It's not. All righty. This is scary. This is getting pretty bad. Half gliding, half floating in the air, with the white-clad bog wraiths were slowly retreating toward the still waters in the island ruin in fantastic formations suggesting some ancient and solemn

ceremonial dance. Their waving translucent arms guided by the detestable piping of those unseen flutes beckoned an uncanny rhythm to a throng of lurching laborers who followed dog-like, with blind, brainless, floundering steps as if dragged by a clumsy but resistless demon will. As the niads neared the bog without altering their course,

a new line of stumbling stragglers zigzagged drunkenly out of the castle from some door far below my window groped sightlessly across the courtyard and threw the intervening bit of village and joined the floundering column of laborers on the plane. Despite their distance below me, I at once knew they were the servants brought from the north, for I recognized the ugly and unwieldy form of the cook

whose very absurdness had now become unutterably tragic. Flutes piped horribly, and again I heard the beating of the drums from the direction of the island ruin. Then, silently and gracefully, the niads reached the water and melted one by one into the ancient bog, while the line of followers, never checking their speed, splashed awkwardly after them and vanished,

mixed a tiny vortex of unwholesome bubbles which I could barely see in the scarlet light. And as the last pathetic straggler, the fat cook, sank heavily out of sight in that sullen pool, the flutes and the drums grew silent, and the blinding red rays from the ruins snapped instantaneously out, leaving the village of doom, lone and desolate, and the waned beams of a new risen moon.

So basically, this guy's looking outside, and everybody is following some wraiths into the bog. That's right. And there's some mad piping and drumming going on, and this guy's basically losing it. Yeah, I get the sense that it's getting louder and more intense. You going to take us home? I'm taking us home.

You ready? Let's do it. My condition was now one of indescribable chaos. Not knowing whether I was mad or sane, sleeping or waking, I was saved only by a merciful numbness. I believe I did ridiculous things, such as offering prayers to Artemis, Latona, Demeter, Persephone, and Pluton.

All that I recalled of a classic youth came to my lips as the horrors of the situation roused my deepest superstitions. I felt that I had witnessed the death of a whole village and knew I was alone in the castle with Dennis Berry, whose boldness had brought down a doom. As I thought of him, new terrors convulsed me, and I fell to the floor, not fainting, but physically

helpless. Then I felt the icy blast from the east window where the moon had risen, and began to hear the shrieks in the castle far below me. Soon those shrieks had attained a magnitude and quality which cannot be written of, and which make me faint as I think of them. All I can say is that they came from something

I had known as a friend. As sometime during the shocking period, the cold wind and the screaming must have roused me, for my next impression is of racing madly through inky rooms and corridors and out across the courtyard into the hideous night. They found me at dawn, wandering mindless near Ballylow, but what unhinged me was utterly not

of any of the horrors I had seen or heard before. What I muttered about as I came slowly out of the shadows was a pair of fantastic incidents which occurred in my flight, incidents of no significance, yet which haunt me unceasingly when I am alone in certain marshy places or in the moonlight. As I fled from that accursed castle along the bog's edge, I heard a new sound, common, yet unlike any I had heard before it killed me.

The stagnant waters, lately quite devoid of animal life, now teamed with a horde of slimy, enormous frogs, which piped shrilly and incessantly in tones strangely out of keeping with their size. They glistened bloated in green and the moon beams and seemed to gaze up at the font of light. I followed the gaze of one very fat and ugly frog and saw the second of the things which drove my senses away.

Stretching directly from the strange olden ruin on the far islet to the waning moon, my eyes seemed to trace a beam of faint, quivering radiance, having no reflection in the waters of the bog and upward along that pallid path, my fevered fancy, pictured a thin shadow slowly writhing, a vague, contorted shadow struggling as if drawn by unseen demons.

Crazed as I was, I saw in that awful shadow a monstrous resemblance, a nauseous, unbelievable caricature, a blasphemous effigy of him who had been Dennis Berry. Whoa. The end. Man. H.P. can paint a picture, can he? He knows what he's doing.

Boy, that is good stuff. Very creepy. He didn't even use the word eldritch in this once and he still knocked it out of the park. Yeah, and he did a good job of describing things instead of just saying it cannot be described. Very creepy. Well done, sir.

Well done, sir. So part one is over, so let's take a break and come back and read story number two for Halloween's Putecular 2015. On the podcast, Hey Dude, the 90s called David Lasher and Christine Taylor, stars of the cult classic show, Hey Dude, bring you back to the days of slipdresses and choker necklaces.

We're going to use Hey Dude as our jumping off point, but we are going to unpack and dive back into the decade of the 90s. We lived it, and now we're calling on all of our friends to come back and relive it. It's a podcast packed with interviews, co-stars, friends, and nonstop references to the best decade ever. Do you remember going to Blockbuster?

Do you remember Nintendo 64? Do you remember getting Frosted Tips? Was that a cereal? No, it was hair. Do you remember AOL Instant Messenger and the dial-up sound like poltergeist? So leave a code on your best friend's beeper because you'll want to be there

when the nostalgia starts flowing. Each episode will rival the feeling of taking out the cartridge from your Game Boy, blowing on it and popping it back in as we take you back to the 90s. Listen to Hey Dude, the 90s called on the iHeart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Hey, I'm Lance Bass, host of the new iHeart podcast, Frosted Tips with Lance Bass. The hardest thing can be knowing who to turn to when questions arise or times get tough or you're at the end of the road. Ah, okay, I see what you're doing. Do you ever think to yourself, what advice would Lance Bass

and my favorite boy bands give me in this situation? If you do, you've come to the right place because I'm here to help. This, I promise you. Oh, God. Seriously, I swear. And you won't have to send an SOS because I'll be there for you.

Oh, man. And so my husband, Michael. Um, hey, that's me. Yep, we know that, Michael. And a different hot, sexy teen crush boy bander each week to guide you through life step by step. Not another one. Kids, relationships, life in general can get messy.

You may be thinking, this is the story of my life. Just stop now. If so, tell everybody, yeah, everybody about my new podcast and make sure to listen. So we'll never, ever have to say bye, bye, bye. Listen to Frosted Tips with Lance Bass on the iHeart radio app, Apple podcast or wherever you listen to podcasts.

I just want to point out, did you notice the awesome Halloween jingle made for us specifically by our composer friend, John Begin? Yeah. Pretty awesome. Agreed. Really helps set the mood. Yeah.

Thanks a lot, John. And Jerry didn't have to do it. She's delighted about it. Way to go, Jerry. All right, the second story is actually contemporary, which is unusual for us. But I emailed the author because you can just do that these days.

And he said, yeah, read it. That's great. That's pretty nice of him. So his name is Peter DeNiverville. It's a great name. And the story is called The Petting Zoo. And I liked it because it tied in with our Spiders episode. And it is quite creepy.

It's super creeps, though. And we're going to actually have a character voice because we have to do voices in this one. I was wondering if you were going to want to do that. Yeah, man. You're going to play Johnson. I'll play the old man. Oh, Johnson.

Yeah, sure I got that. And we're going to have our video ninja for Stuff Mom Never Told You, Annie, who was an actor to do The Old Lady. Oh, nice. OK. To do Old Man, I can't remember his name, The Old Man's Wife. So yes. Yeah, so we need to thank Annie for that.

Thank you, Annie. Here we go with The Petting Zoo. At first, Johnson thought it was a joke. Speeding down the country road, the crude sign was only a blur. But it was that one word. Slowing down, he swung the car onto the paved shoulder. In the rearview mirror, he could see it clearly. The sign was tacked to a stick that was stuck in the ground

just beyond the paved shoulder. Shifting the car into reverse, Johnson jammed the accelerator down. The tires squealed and loose gravel flew as he tore back up the road. Screeching to a halt, Johnson stared at the faded handwriting. Ellsworth's famous spider petting zoo, five miles next right. Spiders fascinated Johnson.

One summer, when he was eight, a large golden black spider had taken up residence underneath the shingles by the back door. Every morning, Johnson would gather up ants in a jar from a nest in the scrubby woods behind his house. One by one, he would drop the wriggling insects into the web. With lightning speed, the spider would spring from a hiding place and race toward the victim. Sinking her fangs into the ant, she would retreat,

waiting for the poison to take effect. When the ants slowly stopped struggling, she would climb back down and delicately wrap her prey in a white shroud. This continued until one day his mother caught him. What a cruel little boy you are. She scolded between clenched teeth as she pummeled his backside.

He could still feel the shame of being spanked. Years later, in a rare moment of remorse, Johnson wondered what it was like for the ant. Trapped, helpless, waiting for the spider to return. Did they know fear or horror? Or was that something only humans experienced? The insect brain was too small, he told himself, or so he hoped.

Five miles, thought Johnson. The side trip might only add another half hour or so to his journey. He would still have time. Once he got to his motel to have a shower, the dinner meeting with the buyer from the supermarket chain wasn't until six o'clock, and it was only four now. Coasting forward, Johnson scanned the road

looking for the turnoff. About 100 yards ahead, he saw a lane that intersected with the highway. Flicking on his turn signal, he shot a quick glance at his watch. If I don't find it in 15 minutes, he promised himself, I'll turn back. Accelerating smoothly, he turned onto

a well-paved secondary road with deep ditches on either side. Punching the buttons on the CD player, he stretched his arms, settling back into the soft leather seat. As the throbbing beat of the music filled his car, his mood lightened. An unexpected adventure and an otherwise boring day. Johnson hated his job.

Endless meetings with bad food and balding buyers, too many drinks and too many hangovers. He was packing on the pounds, too. I have to get back to the gym, he reminded himself. The only redeeming feature of his job was that he was good at it. Top sales rep for the last three years. I should have been an actor, he told himself.

Instead, I'm selling toilet paper and tampons to these turkeys. As the needle on the speedometer crept higher and higher, the neatly kept fields and freshly painted hoses became a blur. Mile after mile slipped by. Johnson felt that he and the car had become one, soaring like a hawk on a summer breeze.

But his mood soon soured. The condition of the road deteriorated. Asphalt gave way to chip seal, which gave way to gravel and finally ended up as dirt. Johnson jumped on the brakes when a huge pothole emerged in the center of the road. Cursing the delay, he checked his watch again. It was almost five.

The long drive down the country road had dulled the sense of time. I'd better turn around, he cautioned himself. As he studied the road ahead, looking for a safe place to make a U-turn, he saw it. An old farmhouse set back from the road. If it hadn't been for the pothole, he would have missed it completely.

By the mailbox, a freshly painted sign read, Ellsworth's famous spider petting zoo. Open year round, all visitors welcome. This must be the place. He concluded, carefully turning up the heavily redded lane, Johnson wondered what he would find. Perhaps one of the locals playing a joke on the tourists. He mused.

Tall grass slapped at the bottom of the car and rusted barbed wire clung to rotted posts that ran alongside the lane. In the untilled fields, scrubby bushes had sprung up like mushrooms. Johnson tried to imagine what the farm looked like in better days, but it was impossible. When he reached the top of the hill,

the farmhouse looked even more decrepit. Blistered paint hung from the wooden shingles and there was a disturbing sag in the middle of the roof. What once had been the side garden was now occupied by tall thistles and a mass of tangled timbers indicating the former site of the main barn. Except for the glass still being intact in the windows,

the house looked abandoned. Where is everybody, thought Johnson. In response to his question, an old woman dressed in a black skirt and a woolen sweater stepped out the side door. It's never a good sign, by the way. She was gnarled and withered like the lone apple tree that stood in the yard.

Johnson guessed she must have been at least 70, maybe even 80 years old. What you want? She spat. Turning off the radio and rolling down the car window, he replied. Is this the petting zoo? That's what the sign says, don't it?

Ignoring her rudeness, Johnson continued. Are you open? I'll get Jake. He out back chopping wood. He watched as she shuffled down a dirt path and disappeared around the corner of the house. Charming, thought Johnson. Opening the car door, he stepped out.

Despite the poverty, the farm had a certain rustic appeal which reminded him of the house that he grew up in in the country. But there was something odd, something missing. Where are the flies, thought Johnson? On most farms, the low buzz of the black swarms was constant, but here there was none. Except for the moaning of the wind, it was quiet.

Perhaps it was the lack of animals, he thought, or maybe it was the stiff breeze at the top of the hill that kept them at bay. Glancing at his watch, he frowned. It was after five o'clock. If he did not get back on the road soon, he would be late for his appointment. Either that or skip his shower.

After driving all day, Johnson did not want to skip the soothing ritual. Taking one last look around, he reached for the handle of the car door. Just then, the old woman reappeared and behind her an even more wisened up old man wearing faded blue overalls and a nicotine-stained undershirt.

Stopping at the corner of the house, the old man spat out a long jet of chewing tobacco under the ground, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he paused momentarily to study Johnson. Speaking to the old woman, he said in a low tone. Thought I heard a car come up. Wants to see your spiders.

She said before she turned away and went back to the farmhouse, letting the screen door slam behind her. You want to see my spiders, young fella? Sure, if you're open, how much? Looking over Johnson's luxury car, he scratched his ruddy face and said, 50 bucks.

50, that's ridiculous. Struggling his shoulders, the old man said, take it or leave it, I got work to do. Then he spat out another long jet of chewing tobacco and turned to go. So this guy, he's a sales shimp. Yeah, he's the part I was born to play, apparently, because I'm nailing it.

He's traveling in his luxury car. He's a spider dude, because he used to torture ants in a spider web as a kid. Right, right. Not that he has super powers bestowed to him by a radio actor spider. No, but she's made the big mistake of going to see this redneck spider farm.

Yeah. It doesn't sound like a good idea. The spitting chewing tobacco while you're talking to a stranger indicates the presence of a redneck. Yeah, so do the overalls. Yeah. All right, so back to the petting zoo.

I can't leave now after coming all this way. Thought Johnson, taking another quick glance at his watch, he said irritably. All right, all right, but this better be good. See, that sounds just like me. It does. The old man smirked and licked his lips as Johnson whipped out a crisp $50 bill from his wallet.

Johnson did not like the old man's greedy look and hastily shoved his wallet back in his pants pocket. Thanks, said the old man sarcastically, snatching the bill from Johnson's hand. Looking over carefully, he folded it up neatly, stuck it in his pocket and said, follow me. The old man led Johnson down an overgrown path to a shed at the back of the farmhouse.

Inside, the dim glow of fluorescent tubes highlighted the dozen plywood shelves that ran along the walls. In contrast to the rest of the farm, the shed was neat, almost antiseptic in appearance. Sitting on each shelf was a glass terrarium filled with twigs and rocks. In the case closest to Johnson,

a small garden spider was spinning a web in the corner. That's an orb spider, said the old man. I know. Said Johnson, annoyed by the interruption. You know spiders? A bit. Replied Johnson. I used to study them when I was a kid.

I bet you're the type that like to feed him, yay. Catch bugs, drop a man, see what happens. Fun, ain't it? Suddenly Johnson was uncomfortable. Oh, how did he guess my secret? He wondered. Johnson felt the warm rush of blood to his neck and ears as he started to blush.

No need to be ashamed, young fella. All kids do it, it's natural. Trying to change the topic, Johnson asked. You, you've been at this long? Keeping spiders? Yeah, I've been at it a while. Most folks scared of spiders, not me. Me and spider get along real good.

Johnson turned back to watch a large black spider in another case sucking up the half digested slurry of its latest victim. Trying to be polite, Johnson asked. But you don't get many visitors here, being so far from the highway. Don't need them. Said the old man.

This is just a sideline. Pausing for effect he added. I breed him. Johnson looked puzzled. For the college. Explained the old man. They use him for research. Does it pay well?

Good enough, they don't know squat about spiders. Said the old man, spitting on the floor. Johnson looked down and saw that a streak of the sticky black tobacco had splashed on his shoes. I've been doing research of my own. Said the old man proudly. Spiders are just like any other critter. Cows, horses, dogs, they're all the same.

Breed the best with the best and you get the best. Or the. The old man's voice trailed off as he started to laugh. There was something about his tone that made Johnson uneasy. You want to see my prize winner? Johnson looked around. Oh, she ain't here. I keep her in the barn.

She kind of makes these critters nervous. I can't say he's a blames them. You want to see her? The way the old man said it, the question sounded more like a challenge. Johnson hesitated. He wanted to say no, but he could not let the old man see that he was afraid.

Sure, answered Johnson. What could it be? He asked himself a tarantula. With the old man in front, they went down a lesser used path to a small barn behind a stand of trees that made it invisible from the farmhouse. A shiny new lock on a rusted hasp yielded to the old man's key.

I don't like kids messing with his stuff. The ancient wooden door swung open. Inside it was pitch black. Johnson hesitated. What was it that made him apprehensive? His mouth felt dry and he tried to swallow. Go on in. Taught on the old man as he shoved Johnson through the door.

Stumbling on a raised sill, Johnson fell to one knee, ripping his pants. Damn it. He cursed. Is the light switch ahead of you? The old man reassured him. Just pull the string. The stench of moldy hay made Johnson gag.

Well, where is it? The spider. He called out. She's in the back. You can't miss her. Where's the light? Right in front of you. Can't you see it?

Mocked the old man. Johnson stretched out his hand. At first he could not feel anything, then slowly groping the air in. He caught hold of it. Johnson's heart leapt in relief. But there was something strange. The line didn't feel like a string.

It was sticky like pulling the line. Johnson knew he had made a mistake. Something rustled in the rafters above him and bits of straw floated down. Johnson bolted for the opening. Enjoy yourself. Cackled the old man as he slammed the door and locked it. Let me out.

Let me out. Shouted Johnson, pounding on the door. Let me out, you old buzzard. But it was no use. The dried out wooden door was like iron. Pausing to catch his breath, his fist throbbing, Johnson looked around. Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the dark.

What appeared to be a black chasm was, in fact, the side entrance to the barn. There must be another way out. He thought. But where? In the gloom, he could see that beyond the entryway, there was a large open space. And beyond that, a boarded up window through which thin

shafts of sunlight streamed. Great, all I have to do is cross the barn, pull off one or two of those boards, and climb out, thought Johnson. Then I'll show that old man 50 bucks he'll wish I'd never stopped. Then he heard another rustle overhead and straw floated down. Who is it?

Who's there? He called out. I'll bet it's that old man, thought Johnson. He thinks he's going to scare me. Sure, you just keep that up, old man. Johnson called out again. Let's see how much laughing you do when I bash your face in. Again, this is totally me.

But first, I've got to get to that window. Be careful, he cautioned himself. This barn must be full of junk. Don't want to fall down and get hurt. Despite the heat in the barn, he shivered. Licking the sweat off his upper lip, Johnson slowly picked his way across the wide wooden planked barn floor, being careful not to trip.

Shadows of old machinery and tools loomed around him. A leather harness that hung from the wall looked like a hangman's noose. There was a peculiar smell, too. It reminded him of a package of chicken that he once left in the trunk of his car in a hot summer day. It was the sickly sweet scent of rotten meat. Oh, gross, muttered Johnson.

There's a dead animal in here. In less than a minute, he had crossed the barn and was standing in front of the boarded-up window. Blocking his exit were three boards nailed haphazardly into the frame. Either the old man was too weak or too lazy to drive them all the way in, concluded Johnson. I can probably pull him off with my bare hands, he smiled

triumphantly. All right, so Johnson's been locked in the barn. It smells like chicken. It smells like rotting chicken. There's a leather harness hanging from the wall, so I think I'd be glad at this point that the old man left, at least. I would think there would be some sort of deliverance-like

thing going on here. Yeah, I mean, he shoved him. The guy's ripped his jeans. There was hostile. It was very hostile. All right, here we go. The first board was half rotted and fell apart in his hands, light streamed in as it came away from the frame.

Then he shifted his attention to the second one, the board in the middle. If he could get this one off, he could easily climb out. But this board wouldn't be so easy. It was like the old door of the barn dried out in tough a steel. Gripping the board with both hands, he began pulling. The nails squealed in protest, and the board started to

move. Only a little bit burnt. Grunted Johnson, the thought of throttling the old man excited him. Just a bit further, another half inch. He could almost feel his fingers closing around the old man's scrawny neck, the eyes bulging, the tongue sticking out, another half inch.

Then it stopped. Desperately, Johnson yanked at the board, but it was no use. It would not yield. I need more leverage, he said to himself, and out loud. Balancing on one foot, he braced his other against the window frame and started pulling again. The muscles in his forearms and back bulged as he strained against the board.

Sweat rolled down his forehead and into his eyes. Come on. He pleaded with the wood. Come on. In his frustration, Johnson did not hear the soft tap, tap, tap on the floor behind him. Tap, tap, tap. Like a blind man with his cane.

Tap, tap, tap. Then it was too late. It struck. The force of the attack rammed him, face versed against the wall, knocking the wind out of him. Warm blood trickled from his nose and ran down his cheek. What was that? Turning around slowly, he could see in the light from the

window, his attacker was crouched inside an empty stall along the opposite wall. The legs tense, ready to spring. It was a spider. No doubt, one of the old man's experiments, that this was no ordinary spider. It was huge, about the size of a pit bull, with legs that extended out three or four feet on either side.

Its eyes stared coldly at him. Johnson did a quick tally of his injuries, except for his bloody nose, he was unharmed. Perhaps the large size of the creature made it difficult for it to mountain attack, he conjectured. Possibly it did not even recognize him as prey. I'm sure that's it. Spiders normally eat moths and insects, he reminded

himself, not human beings. When he was a kid, Johnson liked to throw twigs into a web just to see the spider's reaction. Invariably, after pouncing on the object, the spider would pluck it out of the web, turn it over, and drop it on the ground. Johnson hoped the spider would show the same lack of interest.

From its vantage point at the other end of the bar, and the creature seemed puzzled, unsure of itself. Spiders are cautious, he told himself. It's waiting for me to make the next move. Although every fiber in his body screamed to run, his brain told him to stay still. The spider was too big and too fast to outrun. He needed a weapon, he told himself.

Quickly looking about, he saw the rotten board from the window lying at his feet. It was about two feet long, with a jagged point at one end. It'll have to do. Slowly, he bent down to pick it up. The spider crouched low, like a sprinter ready to strike again. Johnson froze, his fingers only inches from the board.

Easy girl, he whispered softly, easy. The spider relaxed, but not completely. Deliberately, it began to move forward. Tap, tap, tap. Johnson was amazed by the creature's grace, like a ballerina tiptoeing in from the darkened wings of a theater. It was a marvel of beauty and design.

The body, covered by fine gray hair, had the look of velvet, while the eight legs that extended from the thorax provided speed and balance. As it approached Johnson, the spider carefully extended one four-legged toward him. Johnson quickly knocked it away with his hands. The creature stopped and cocked its plate-sized head to one side.

The eight eyes looked like black fists. Then the leg came forward again. At the tip, Johnson could see the spike-like claw for catching prey. It touched his left shoulder. Through his jacket, he could feel the sharp point digging into his skin. Johnson winced and stepped backwards to the wall, but

there was no place to go. Slowly, the other four-legged came forward. Johnson recoiled, trying to ward off the attack with his free arm, but their creature was too strong. It brushed his arm aside as if there were a piece of lint and planted a second claw into his other chest. Johnson cried out, help, help! Then the spider reared up on its hind legs, forcing

Johnson to his knees. For a brief moment, he and the creature looked into his chether's eyes. It was almost like love. Then he saw the six-inch fangs that extended from the head, drops of venom gleamed in the half-light. He watched in fascination as the cruel daggers arched high over him.

Then he screamed as they plunged deeply into his chest, instantly white, hot pain ripped through his body. Then it was gone. The spider had retreated back to the stall. Johnson knew that he had only a minute or two before the poison paralyzed him. This is it, he said to himself, my only chance. Ignoring his wounds, Johnson turned back to the window.

Grabbing at the board, he yanked and pulled to no avail. Already, the venom was having its effect. His hands were numb and his arms felt like lead. Gasping for air, he threw himself at the boards again and again, but it was no use. He was beaten. Great sob shook his body as he slumped to the floor. This can't be happening to me.

He protested. It's ridiculous. It is ridiculous, right? Oh, he's attacked by a spider the size of a pit bull. I would find that hard to believe. Well, that's why you're playing Johnson. Thanks. Looking back at the spider, he could see that it's still not

moved. What is she waiting for? He wondered. Why doesn't she finish me off? He soon had his answer, shimmering like a great overcoat that was something on the spider's back. It moved and undulated like a small wave flowing back and forth.

Then a piece of the wave pulled away and dropped to the floor. It was another spider, only a lot smaller about the size of a rat. Johnson recalled that some spiders carry their young in their backs. Horrified, he realized that he had stumbled into their nursery and it was feeding time.

Another one dropped to the floor, and then another. Soon, there was a long line of spiders slowly crawling towards him. Through fading eyesight, he saw the first one reach his foot. Inevitably, his foreleg probed the air until it found his leg and had it in him. It was light and delicate like the touch of a child.

Johnson opened his mouth to scream at my sound theme. The last thing Johnson saw before he lost consciousness was a spider tearing a piece of flesh from the back of his hand. It's curtains for Johnson. Yeah, no more lines for me. Baby spiders, the size of rats. I know, that's really awful.

Back at the farmhouse, the old man picked up the whiskey bottle from the kitchen table, poured himself another drink, and plopped down on the ancient recliner. How long it take, Jake? Asked the old woman. Not long, he grunted. They ain't it since Sunday. Get a better sign.

I'll chat more folks. Nah, the sign's OK. Anyway, we don't need a crowd, said the old man, taking a long, hard swallow. Whatcha gonna do with his car? She asked, standing at the window, admiring the now ownerless vehicle. I hear young Dougal needs one for running moonshine.

Willin' to pay good price, too, said the old man. Won't he ask questions? Wondered the old woman, pouring a drink and easing herself down onto a dusty couch. Nah, he don't care, snickered the old man. I'll talk to him tomorrow. Meanwhile, passed me that remote. Let's see what's on the TV.

Boom, it all comes down. The whole thing was an indictment on Americans addiction to television. I think you're right. And America's propensity to shun foreign people. And to grow giant spiders. That's right. Man, everything was represented.

It was basically like mom, apple pie, and baseball, too. That's right. All right, that's a good one. Good job, Johnson. Good job, Peter. I don't know what his old man's name is. No, Peter the author. The guy who actually wrote this thing.

Oh, absolutely. Yeah, great job. And thanks to Annie for providing the counterpart to Cleetus the Slack, John Yockel. Thanks to you for your redneck man. My spirited redneck. All right, you got anything else? I think that's pretty great.

I do have one thing else. All right. Happy Halloween, everybody. Happy Halloween. We'll see you next year. For more on this and thousands of other topics, visit HowStuffWorks.com. On the podcast, hey dude, the 90s called David Lasher

and Christine Taylor, stars of the cult classic show, Hey Dude, bring you back to the days of slipdresses and choker necklaces. We're going to use Hey Dude as our jumping off point, but we are going to unpack and dive back into the decade of the 90s. We lived it, and now we're calling on all of our friends to come back and relive it.

Listen to Hey Dude, the 90s called on the iHeart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, I'm Lance Bass, host of the new iHeart podcast, Frosted Tips with Lance Bass. Do you ever think to yourself, what advice would Lance Bass and my favorite boy bands give me in this situation? If you do, you've come to the right place because I'm here to help.

And a different hot, sexy teen crush boy bander each week to guide you through life. Tell everybody, yeah, everybody, about my new podcast and make sure to listen so we'll never, ever have to say. Bye, bye, bye. Listen to Frosted Tips with Lance Bass on the iHeart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts.